


Some Shape of Beauty

by heartsandmuses



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 80s movies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Baking, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Clint Is a Good Bro, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Lava Lamps, M/M, Mistletoe, Soft Stucky Week, Soft Stucky Week 2016, Steve is super unlucky, background clint/natasha - Freeform, even though i know nothing about baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsandmuses/pseuds/heartsandmuses
Summary: The first time Steve notices him, he immediately thinks, I'm fucked.Well, okay, that’s not entirely true. The first time Steve notices him, he thinks he recognizes the guy from somewhere, that maybe he’s an actor or a model or something else that screams Manhattan instead of rickety bus in the asscrack of Brooklyn, until he realizes, no, that’s not it at all. Simply enough, the man is just The Most Handsome Guy Steve Has Ever Seen.And then he promptly and succinctly thinks, I'm fucked.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Soft Stucky Week 2016.
> 
> Based on [this Tumblr post.](https://ofgeography.tumblr.com/post/144981655676/the-most-beautiful-man-in-the-world-who-lives-in)

     The first time Steve notices him, he immediately thinks, _I’m fucked_.

     Well, okay, that’s not entirely true. The first time Steve notices him, he thinks he recognizes the guy from somewhere, that maybe he’s an actor or a model or something else that screams _Manhattan_ instead of _rickety bus in the asscrack of Brooklyn_ , until he realizes, no, that’s not it at all. Simply enough, the man is just The Most Handsome Guy Steve Has Ever Seen.

     And _then_ he promptly and succinctly thinks, _I’m fucked_.

     Because the thing about this guy is that he isn’t just handsome. He’s radiant, he’s ravishing, he’s beautiful in a way that Steve can’t fully explain without using analogies like _the first snowfall of winter_ or _the shine of dewy grass at dawn_. It’s lame, he _knows_ it’s lame, but somehow it’s also completely and frustratingly accurate; later, when Sam asks what’s got Steve grinning like that, those will be the words that’ll spew out of his mouth without a second thought.

     He hates it, a little. The way this stranger can turn his brain to mush with just his face.

     Steve has to lean over and turn his head at an uncomfortable angle to catch even the barest glimpses of the guy: the flash of a dazzling smile as he checks his phone, the lines of his arms as he stretches, the cut of a sculpturesque jaw. He’s pretty sure he’s encroaching on the personal space of at least three other passengers in the process, but hey, it’s a bus and it’s New York City and thankfully no one notices.

     He doesn’t even realize he’s staring, not right away. Not until The Most Handsome Guy He’s Ever Seen turns away from the window, eyes lazily sweeping over the crowded bus before finally landing on Steve, who, suddenly _very_ aware of the intensity of his own gaze, ducks his head and pretends he’s doing something normal. Anything. Examining the floor. Scratching his elbow. Clearing his throat. Hell, he even takes a book out of his messenger bag and half hides behind it for good measure.

     The bus starts to clear out soon enough and then it’s just Steve and The Most Handsome Guy He’s Ever Seen and maybe a couple others, but he doesn’t really pay them any mind. He started to notice The Most Handsome Guy sneaking glances at him a few stops back, and the pounding of his heart coincides with the flutter of his stomach and Steve tries to smile at the guy but he’s already turned away.

     But then The Most Handsome Guy’s turning back around, gaze searching, and he’s—

     Walking towards Steve.

     And Steve’s about to say _I wasn’t staring_ or something equally as suspicious, but The Most Handsome Guy He’s Ever Seen beats him to the punch. Leaning over, he says in a stage-whisper after the arrival announcement at the next stop, “Your book’s upside-down.” He throws Steve a wink as he continues past him and out the creaky doors.

     Steve stays red for the rest of the ride home.

 

***

 

     Steve doesn’t run into The Most Handsome Guy He’s Ever Seen for the next two weeks, which is as relieving as it is devastating. But he lets it go, and eventually Steve starts to forget what the guy even looks like, even though whenever he thinks about him a blush still fights its way onto his cheeks in an annoyingly Pavlovian fashion.

     He occupies himself with his usual routine: going to work, dragging Sam to the gym, having a beer with Clint. Sometimes it’s two beers, sometimes more. Clint’s going on three and a half as of right now; he speeds through the stuff like water, and is at the point in his buzz where he’s relaxed, happy, open — and willing to bring up whatever’s been on his mind since they settled on a movie.

     “Hey,” Clint says, and it takes a couple more tries to pry Steve’s gaze away from _Jumanji_. “Steve. Buddy. The best neighbour a guy could ask for.” The fact that there’s another bottle quickly replacing the empty one in Steve’s hand, when Clint usually needs goading to get his own drink from the fridge, only confirms Steve’s suspicions. It’s that part that finally diverts his attention from the screen. He recognizes Clint’s tone right away.

     “I’m not liking the sound of this,” he says, wary. “You want something.”

     Clint feigns a look of utter surprise; it’s not half bad, but it’s still far from Oscar bait. Either way, Steve knows him too well to buy into it. Clint realizes it’s a futile attempt soon enough, and drops the act, shrugging. “Yeah, okay, you got me. I need some help moving.” He pauses for a second. “Oh, and packing. Ughhh. I should probably get started on that soon.”

     The bottle slowly pauses halfway to Steve’s lips, and his brows fly up his forehead. “You’re moving?”

     “Yeah, I told you already.” Clint mirrors Steve’s confused stare until finally he snaps out of it and exclaims, “Oh, shit! I forgot to tell you!”

     This, Steve can tell, _isn’t_ an act, and he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jeez. When was I gonna find out, when you were loaded halfway into the moving truck?”

     “Heh. Yeah, sorry about that.” Clint’s sheepishness only lasts for a second before his eyes light up in— Well, Steve’s not really sure, but it might be excitement. “Surprise,” he says, equipped with jazz hands and everything. “And I didn’t even get evicted this time.”

     “Congratulations,” Steve teases dryly.  

     Clint rolls his eyes and shoves Steve a little. “Yeah, yeah, shuddup. But, hey, listen to this: once I pack this place up, I’m moving in with Nat.”

     “Really?” Steve grins widely, bumping his shoulder against Clint’s. Some beer sloshes onto the couch, seeping into the fabric, but there’s already a stain in that spot so the new one is practically unnoticeable. Clint acknowledges it with an unconcerned wave of his wrist and an offhand, “Aw, beer, no.” He’s probably going to leave it to whoever moves in next. The couch seems like it's been around since the building’s inception, brought in with the bricks and cement — it was bestowed to Clint upon moving, and the passing down of the couch from tenant to tenant comes as close to a tradition as apartment 4C has ever seen.

     “Hell yeah, really.”

     “That’s— I mean— Holy shit, _finally_! Congrats,” Steve says again, but this time he sincerely means it. It’s cute that Clint and Nat are taking their relationship to the next level, though if Steve said to either of them, he might just get his ass kicked. He’s only met Natasha a handful of times, but from what he could gather, she’s a force to be reckoned with. Clint’s been going out with her for years—about as long as Steve has known him—and anyone with working eyes can tell they’re head over heels for each other, even though they rarely say as much.

     “Yeah, thanks. It’s— Kinda scary, honestly.” But despite that, Clint just beams and taps his beer bottle against Steve in cheers.

     “I can’t believe you’re settling down,” Steve says with an impressed whistle. He looks pointedly at the seven pizza boxes on the coffee table and the two hiding under it. The apartment looks like it hasn’t been vacuumed in years and hasn’t been dusted in even longer. There are more arrows and unlabelled, uncased CDs on the bookshelf than there are actual books. Popcorn’s scattered over the floor and table, but Steve chooses to ignore it because, assuming it’s all from today, half of the blame is his.

     “Trust me, guy, I can’t believe it either.” He sounds happy about it, though, and a soft sigh escapes Clint as he nestles further into the couch cushions. “Feel kinda bad for Nat’s roommate, though. His lease is up around the same time as mine, and Nat—somehow, I don’t wanna know—convinced him not to renew it.” Clint nods at the TV, adding, “Those are the fakest monkeys I’ve ever seen.”

     “Wait ‘til the little boy turns into one.”

     Clint narrows his eyes at Steve skeptically. “You’re shitting me.”

     “He’s either that or a kid version of Michael J. Fox in _Teen Wolf_ , I can never tell.”

     Clint huffs out a laugh. “Oh my God, Steve.”

     “What?”

     “When’s the last time you watched a movie from this century?”

     “Oh shut up. When’d you say you were moving out again?” he retorts.

     “Not soon enough,” Clint quips right back. Belatedly, he adds, “Oh, right, I should probably mention, your neighbour’s gonna be Nat’s roommate.” He pauses. “Ex-roommate? Whatever, I dunno. He’s moving in here as soon as I move out.”

     Steve’s never met Natasha’s roommate and Clint hardly talks about him. Honestly, he’s hardly met Natasha, but for some reason Steve trusts her judgement. Clint also vouches for the guy—Bucky Barnes—which he takes into consideration, but a little less so. (Clint once took in a raccoon after mistaking it for a dog. Steve doesn’t bring it up anymore, but he hasn’t exactly forgotten about it either.)

     “He’s a cool guy,” Clint assures. “Really good at Mario Kart. Pretty funny, too. I mean, he’s no Clint Barton, but I think you guys’ll get along just fine.”

     “I think we’ll get along fine just _because_ he’s no Clint Barton,” Steve says. It’s nearing the end of the month when Steve assumes Clint’s rent is up, so he has to get all the good digs in while he still can.

     “Ooh, harsh,” Clint replies, sucking in a breath like he’s been burned. “You know you’ll miss me, Rogers.”

     Steve loses the smirk, lets it curl into a smile when he admits, “Yeah, I will.”

     “You’re such a sap.”

     “Shuddup,” Steve says easily. “You’ll miss me too, asshole.”

     “Yeah, yeah. I’ll give you a call every once in awhile.” Steve’s about to rag on him about who’s being a sap now, but Clint quickly adds, “That way, I don’t have to actually see your ugly mug.”

 

***

 

     Steve doesn’t hear from Clint for about a week after he moves out. He chalks it up to all the honeymoon-phase sex he must be having, which Clint insists on describing in precise detail at three in the morning.

 

***

 

     Steve sometimes tortures himself by jogging home after spending a couple hours at the gym with Sam.

     Oh, the running’s not the torture. The running, he’s fine with — despite the fact that it’s mid-November and the temperature’s starting to drop. It’s just the whole idea of sharing an elevator with someone up to the twentieth floor of his apartment afterwards that he really can’t stand — and while he likes cardio well enough, a gym visit, a jog, _and_ twenty flights of stairs would probably be the death of him. The thing is, he forgets about the elevator ride the same way he forgets about leaving his gym bag in Sam’s car: for a good long while, until the repeated realization hits him like a brick wall. Which only really happens at the most inopportune times.

     Like when he’s stuck in the elevator for twenty floors with The Most Handsome Guy He’s Ever Seen.

     God, the sheer luck of that — or, Steve supposes, the complete lack of. Honestly, what are the odds that Steve would run into the guy a second time in New York City? And what are the odds that he’d end up in Steve’s building, also going to the twentieth floor?

     What are the fuckin’ odds that all this just happens to land on the day Steve, reeking of a high school locker room, wears a faded grey t-shirt that amplifies the already-noticeable sweat stains he has no discernible cause for? Really. He’s got no gym bag on hand and he’s stopped panting a while ago. The most probable cause at this point is that Steve’s just unbelievably sweaty all the time, and when The Most Handsome Guy He’s Ever Seen clears his throat around the fifth floor and offers a small smile and sweeping glance, all it does is make Steve sweat even more.

     The guy’s nice enough about it, though. He politely holds his tongue about Steve’s appearance, as well as the fact that Steve’s trying to sneak glances at him even though the elevator walls are lined with mirrors and it’s nearly impossible to be any more obvious about it.

     He can’t tell if it’s too late to say something— _fifteen, sixteen, seventeen_ —but the doors slide open with a _ding!_ before he makes up his mind.

     “Well, see you around,” The Most Handsome Guy He’s Ever Seen says, as they exit the elevator in tandem and walk down the hall.

     “Good, you?” Steve replies. It’s after a long moment that he fumbles with his key in the lock and wishes desperately that he’ll just drop dead right then and there.

     There’s a stretch of silence, interrupted only by the sound of Steve trying desperately and forcefully to open his front door, and then from across the hall a _pro forma_ , “You okay there, neighbour?”

     Steve turns around slowly, finding The Most Handsome Guy He’s Ever Seen standing in the doorway to what used to be Clint’s apartment.

     “Um. I’m. Yeah, no, I’m good.” And because his mother raised him right, regardless of his current lack of eloquence, he holds out a hand and adds, “Steve Rogers.”

     “Bucky Barnes,” he says, and gives Steve’s hand a firm shake. It’s over a little too quickly, but Steve can still feel the warmth of Bucky’s palm ghosting his own. “See you around, Steve.”

     This time, thankfully, Steve says, “Yeah, see you around.”

 

***

 

     Steve’s phone is in his hand no more than two seconds after he closes his front door, and he’s just flopping onto the couch face-first when Clint answers on the third ring.

     “What happened? Are you dying?”

     “What?” It comes out muffled, so Steve turns his head away from the couch cushions. “No, I’m fine—”

     “Do you need me to save you from a bad date?”

     “Uh, no—”

     “Is your apartment on fire? Did you get hit by a car? Is this some kind of emergency?”

     “ _No_.”

     “Oh.” There’s a long pause, followed by an audible sigh of relief on the other end of the line. “Jesus Christ, Steve. You’re not ninety, just text me like a normal person. Way to give a guy a heart attack, dude.”

     “Oh, that’s rich,” Steve bites back easily, still a little stunned by the past five minutes, “considering the heart attack I nearly had because you never told me that my new neighbour is _literally one of the most attractive men to walk this earth._ ”

     “Uh, you mean Bucky?” Steve can imagine Clint shrugging. “Yeah, he’s alright, I guess.”

     Steve’s silence is more of a reply than anything else.

     “Okay, I won’t lie, he’s an attractive individual.”

     Steve merely raises a brow, and though Clint can’t see it, they know each other well enough that Clint can probably still sense it somehow.

     “Fine, alright, he’s pretty hot.” There's some kind of a muffled sound, and then: “Ow! That was Nat, who just _hit me in the face with a throw pillow_. Nat, who, might I add, is _also_ very, very hot,” he quickly amends. “Much hotter than Bucky. Stunning. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Who were we talking about again?”

     Steve lets out a long groan and runs a hand down his face. “It’s like he descended from heaven to torture me with his good looks.”

     Clint makes a sympathetic noise. “Dude,” he says. “Bucky lives right across the hall, just go ask him out.”

     “I can’t. I’m sweaty and he probably thinks I’m an idiot.”

     “Um. Okay. Then. Just. Don’t ask him out?”

     “But— he’s so—” He can’t find a word that encompasses the beauty that is Bucky Barnes, so he punctuates that with another agonized groan.

     “Steve, buddy, I really don’t know what you want me to say,” Clint flounders, and there’s some murmuring in the distance which is probably Natasha coming to his rescue and offering her two cents on the matter. “Oh, hey, you know what, though? I know what’ll take your mind off it.”

     “What?”

     “Finding a nice housewarming present for me and Nat. We’re throwing a party.”

     “ _Thinking_ of throwing a party,” Natasha corrects loudly. “It’s not happening unless my _loving boyfriend_ gets off his ass and unpacks his stuff.”

     “Which is happening soon...ish,” Clint assures. “Probably. But buy us something cool. I’m thinking maybe a lava lamp. Or a toaster oven.”  

     “Wine,” Natasha tells him. “Please.”

     “Lava lamp,” Clint whispers, and those are the parting words he leaves Steve with after he hangs up.

 

***

 

     It reminds him of his mother, the mess of flour and excess dough dusting the counter, the scent of vanilla extract that she used to wear like perfume. Even the warmth of the kitchen—the oven like a second radiator in the cozy apartment—makes Steve think back to childhood afternoons baking. Or, rather, watching his mother bake, as she danced around the kitchen to whatever was on the radio and hummed along sweetly.

     When he was little, Sarah Rogers used to welcome every new neighbour with a homemade pie. Steve would help, too, in the only way a kid with his culinary abilities could: by delivering it with a toothy grin and the courteous charm his mother would insistently coach him on before sending him out the door. Steve’s baking has long improved since then, but somehow nothing ever comes out exactly the way his mother used to make it, even when he’s followed the recipe to a tee.

     He’s working on it.

     And anyways, just because Steve new neighbour is The Most Handsome Guy He’s Ever Seen, doesn’t mean he’s about to let a perfectly good tradition go to waste.

 

***

 

     The scent of the cooling cherry pie travels like smoke from the kitchen to the living room to the rest of the apartment, which does wonders for Steve's mood, but not so much for his growling stomach. He takes a moment just to breathe it in; he has to deliver it to Bucky soon or else he'll end up having it for himself. And listen, he's really trying to make a good impression here, so that option's completely off the table.

     Steve scoops the pie up quickly and fluidly and in ten steps he's out of his apartment; another three and he's knocking at Bucky's door, putting on his most cordial smile. He only hopes it doesn't make him look as needlessly nervous as he feels, heart in his throat as he wonders if he's got flour on his face or sweat stains or any number of things that didn't seem like an issue a minute ago. So he hazards a glance down, gaze hurriedly sweeping over himself, his clothes—

     And there it is.

     Cherry pie filling. Right in the middle of his sweater. His white, freshly-laundered, one and only cashmere sweater.

     Somehow, Steve’s not surprised. He is relieved, though, to look down and see the pie looking no less than perfect.

     It’s a small victory, in any case. Another would be having enough time to run home and change so at least he doesn’t look like a total slob as he’s presenting his welcome, but it seems as though Steve’s filled his quota for the day because Bucky chooses that moment to open the door.

     “Hey,” Bucky greets with a smile. His sleeves are rolled up, a dishrag slung over his shoulder; he’s drying his hands on his jeans, and Steve, even though he’s seen Bucky in passing nearly every day this week, still gets taken aback by the force of his beauty. It’s getting annoying, honestly, the way his throat closes up every time they come into close contact, palms sweating and heart racing and Good Lord, can a person just be _too_ pretty? “What’s up? You need to borrow a cup of sugar or something?”

     Too late to back out now. “Well, actually, no, I’ve got something for you.”

     “Oh?”

     “I, uh. I baked you a pie,” Steve says, holding it out in offering, “to welcome you to the neighbourhood.” He pauses, and a small laugh escapes him without warning. “Which I’m only now realizing is, wow, it’s really old-fashioned and—”

     “Steve,” Bucky interjects kindly, taking the pie tin from him with a grateful smile. “This is— It smells amazing, first of all. Secondly, it was sweet of you to do this, it means a lot to me. Seriously, I’ve been living off of nothing but pizza for the past week.”

     “Y’know, you’re starting to sound just like Clint,” Steve teases.

     Bucky just rolls his eyes and tries to bite back a smile. “Really, thank you for this.”

     “Oh, it’s no problem. My mom used to do it all the time, I’d hate to lose the tradition.” He shrugs modestly, gesturing to the pie. “Well, I’ll, um, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy.”

     He takes about two steps in the direction of his apartment before the sound of Bucky’s voice makes him turn back around.

     “Hey, Steve?”

     “Yeah?”

     “C’mere for a sec,” Bucky says, a hint of a smirk at his lips, and before he’s even thinking about it, Steve does. “You’ve got a little—” He nods at Steve’s sweater, and suddenly the dishrag’s in his free hand. He holds it up in question.

     “Cherry pie filling,” he says by way of explanation. “I picked some up at the farmer’s market yesterday. Best canned filling in New York. Or so the vendor says, but I guess you’ll be the judge of that.”

     Bucky hums in agreement as he wipes the filling away. His tongue pokes out from between his lips, in concentration or consideration, Steve can’t tell, a bit too focused on the crease between Bucky’s brows that he just wants to smooth out with his thumb. The stain doesn’t quite come out, but it’s better than walking around with a chunk of cherry on his sweater. “Ah, fuck,” Bucky mutters, leaning back to examine Steve’s chest like he’s looking at a painting in a gallery. He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I think I just made it worse.”

     “It’s fine, I’ll just—”

     “Come inside,” Bucky says, stepping aside and holding the front door open a little wider. “Better throw it in the wash right away or I don’t think it’s coming out at all.”

     Steve’s half a second from reminding Bucky that his own washing machine is no more than ten steps away from where he’s currently standing, but bites his tongue and thinks better of it. But Steve doesn’t want to jump too eagerly either, so he pretends to consider for a moment.

     Bucky takes Steve’s contemplation as reluctance, so he offers a dazzling grin and holds up the pie a little. “I’ll cut you a slice.”

     As if he had to sweeten the deal at all.

     “Well, how can I say no to that?”

     As soon as the front door falls closed, Bucky holds out a hand expectantly and Steve peels his sweater off — and now, even though he only has a plain t-shirt underneath, he feels suddenly warmer. Bucky’s gaze isn’t sharp, but it isn’t subtle either; there’s something soft about it, and he looks away every few seconds, like he’s trying not to look at all.

     Steve refuses to think about that too much. If he does, he highly doubts he’ll be able to think of much else. He diverts his focus to something else, anything else — the shaky hum of the washing machine, exactly like his own; the way the smell of the pie leaves a lingering trail toward the kitchen, where it seems Bucky’s disappeared to.

     He just waits in the living room, surveying the collection of boxes stacked like precarious turrets of a castle, the TV playing in the background. There’s some kind of method to the mess, unlike the look of the living room when it was still Clint’s. Steve doesn’t want to move anything, just in case, and hurdles over the back of the couch to land on the cushions, equally glad and disappointed Bucky wasn’t around to see that.

     Bucky emerges from the kitchen not too long after, though, a plate in each hand. He kicks boxes off to the side carelessly, paving a path to get to the couch where he drops onto the empty space beside Steve and hands over a slice of cherry pie.

     Steve’s been fretting over how it might taste, this being the first time he followed the recipe on his own, but the relief quickly pours in. It’s good — it’s really good, actually. As proud of himself as Steve is, though, he can’t help but think that there’s something off about it, something missing. But despite reading and rereading the recipe, scrolling through online forums, wandering through the cookbook aisle of local bookstores, he can’t for the life of him figure out _what_.  Steve’s going through a mental checkbox of ingredients, sitting silently, distractedly, until Bucky starts chuckling to himself and snaps him out of it.

     “Oh God, sorry, I forgot I was in the middle of this movie,” Bucky says, not looking the least bit apologetic. “The cable guy came in this morning, I just wanted to check that everything was in working order.”

     It doesn’t take long for Steve to recognize the movie. He knows it so quickly, in fact, that it’s actually a little embarrassing; Bucky, on the other hand, looks completely unabashed about his choice.

     “ _Romancing the Stone?”_ Steve asks with a laugh. “Really?”

     “Ah, so you’re familiar with this masterpiece,” Bucky says, grinning. He leans back, sighing contently. “I love terrible movies. I love terrible _'80s_ movies.”

     It’s a wonder how Steve doesn’t pull out a ring and ask Bucky to marry him right then and there.

     “God help me, so do I,” Steve confesses. They turn back to the screen, watching silently for about minute before he adds, “You have to admit, though, this one isn’t _that_ bad.”

     “Oh, I didn’t start watching for this one. They’re showing a double feature,” Bucky explains, gesturing to the TV with his fork. His lips are curled into the most wicked smile, all teeth and mischief and Steve can’t look away. “Steve, pal, have you ever seen _Jewel of the Nile?_ ”

 

***

 

     They leave the sweater in the machine a little too long and dry it a little too much and by the end of the second spin cycle and the third movie, the stain still hasn’t come out.

     Steve can’t really bring himself to mind.

 

***

 

     The first snowfall of the year coincides with the first day of December. It happens at night, so by mid-afternoon the next day, when Steve’s waiting out in the cold for the bus, the streets are covered in watery, brown-grey slush that makes his heart lurch every time a car passes by a little too fast.

     Steve perks up when he sees the bus rolling along the street about half a block away, and he pulls his hat up a little so it’s easier to read where it’s headed. It’s taking the express route, which Steve learns just as the bus speeds past him like the driver has only now discovered the art of joyriding. The force is enough to send a spray of slush onto the pavement — and onto Steve.

     He’s shivering and soaking wet when he actually gets back to his apartment, and by the time he’s in the elevator he feels like he’s turning blue. He’s had pneumonia before, when he was a kid, and Steve’s definitely not eager to get it again. Especially with Christmas just around the corner. (This particular corner takes a month to get around, but still.)

     Like the absolute genius that he is, his jacket had been unzipped, so the slush melts through the sweater underneath, through his shirt, and also—honestly, it was just his luck—through his jeans and boxers. His socks, miraculously, remain dry even though his boots are damp.

     The heater’s on in the whole building, or at least Steve thinks it is, but his teeth are still chattering by the time he hits the button for the twentieth floor, and bouncing on the balls of his feet in a resolute but futile attempt to get his circulation back isn’t really cutting it.

     He has to get out of these wet clothes.

     And fast.

     He starts stripping out of his jacket. His sweater’s next, and then his shirt, and by the time he gets to the fifteenth floor, Steve’s holding a bundle of his clothes in his hands, contemplating his pants next and ultimately deciding against it.

     It’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday; Steve doubts anyone’s gonna get in, and he _really_ doubts anyone’s gonna get in wanting to go up. All he’s thinking about at this point is throwing these in the dryer and then taking a nice warm shower to get his blood running again.

     What he’s not thinking about is how he must look when the elevator door opens and, lo and behold, there’s Bucky, standing on the other side.

     He’s all bundled up in a scarf and black peacoat, which is what Steve tries to focus on instead of Bucky’s lingering gaze that drops somewhere around Steve’s chest and doesn’t come up for at least thirty seconds when the elevator threatens to close on them both. (And that, that sly little once-over, is what gets Steve’s heart pumping, blood rushing warmly in a full-body blush.)

     Bucky just holds out an arm to stop the doors, waiting for Steve to step out. “Are you—”

     “Please don’t ask,” Steve says, and his tone must sound as desperate as he feels because Bucky only nods once and gets into the elevator. He offers a polite albeit confused smile that warms Steve right up, hot shower be damned.

 

***

 

     There’s a knock at Steve’s door that evening, even though he hasn’t made any plans. It won’t be the first time Sam turns up unexpectedly or Clint comes around in search of food, and if Steve were a betting man he might put money on the latter. Good thing he isn’t, though, because he opens the door to find Bucky standing there, a packet of microwavable popcorn in one hand and _Weekend at Bernie’s_ on DVD in the other.

     It’s seven o’clock and Steve’s already in his pajamas—boxers, socks, a ratty t-shirt that has at least two unrelated stains—and his hair’s sticking out at nearly every possible angle from towel-drying it after his shower.

     It really is amazing—and by that he means a curse at worst, an uncanny talent at best—how Bucky seems to always catch Steve at the most inauspicious times.

     It’s even more unbelievable how Bucky never seems to actually mind.

     “Saw you were having a bad day,” he says before Steve can get a standard _hello_ out. Bucky has those eyes on: kind and soft and a little bit worried, and that warms Steve up just as well as the radiator he can hear thrumming in his living room.  “I thought maybe you could use a pick-me-up.”

     “I…” The day’s tension escapes him in a deflating sigh. He gestures for Bucky to come inside. “Yeah, I really could.”

     Bucky pats Steve’s shoulder as he walks by, touch firm and lingering. And when Steve thanks him quietly, Bucky just slings an arm around his neck, leads him to the couch, and says, “Anytime, pal.”

     There’s a part of Steve’s mind, right there in the forefront, that dedicates itself to watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye instead of paying attention to the TV in front of him; it’s also the part responsible for filing Bucky Barnes, The Most Handsome Guy Steve Has Ever Seen, under The Sweetest too.

 

***

 

     Steve shows up at Bucky’s door early into the evening the next day, with a tin of freshly baked gingerbread cookies as thanks for— well, everything.

     He ends up eating half of them, sprawled out on Bucky’s couch as they suffer through _Weird Science_ together.

 

***

 

     It turns out Clint only gets his shit together and unpacks his stuff, as Natasha lovingly puts it over the phone, a month later. Which means that their housewarming party is officially a go.

     “It’s also a Christmas party,” Clint tells him, delighted. “You know what that means.”

     “Um. There’s gonna be eggnog?”

     “No. Well, yes. But also—” Clint’s voice is down to a whisper now, which only makes Steve suspect Natasha’s somewhere nearby “—double the lava lamps.”

 

***

 

     Steve can’t cook for the life of him, despite having assisted his mother in the kitchen for a good twenty years, but it turns out he can bake worth half a damn and teach just as well. Or so he assumes, because the apartment hasn’t burned down, the gingerbread cools quickly, and Bucky can now confidently tell a tablespoon from a teaspoon.

     (“A spoon’s a spoon, Stevie,” he says flippantly, but hands over the correct one when Steve asks.

     “You’ve been spending too much time with Clint,” is all Steve replies to that, biting back a grin.)

     They assemble the gingerbread house with surprising ease and move on to decorating soon after: carefully placing gumdrop shingles on the roof, outlining the windows with store-bought icing, spreading sprinkles all over the lawn. It’s a little tricky, because icing isn’t really the best adhesive on the market, but they make it work. Steve’s sure they’re doubling the calories on this thing at a rampant rate, but he hardly cares, not when the house is actually turning out much better than he expected.

     After the picket fence disassembles in his light hold for a second time, falling onto the counter with a dull thud, Steve gets a strong feeling that the reason his cheeks are sore from smiling has nothing to do with the gingerbread at all.

     “We’re gonna have the best house in town, pal, just you wait,” Bucky tells him, delighted and self-assured. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, and Steve looks at it a second too long before continuing to craft the gingerbread fence surrounding the little house. “All the neighbours’ll be jealous. Hell, _I’m_ jealous. What is this, three bed, two bath, and a view? I’d buy it.”

     “So would the witch from Hansel & Gretel,” Steve jests.

     “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Like you wouldn’t wanna live here yourself.” Bucky’s dry look only stays that way for a moment before a broad grin slips onto his face.

     Steve reminds him with a small chuckle, “We’re eating it, not putting it up for lease, you do know that, right?”

     Bucky laughs, and he’s got this faraway look in his eyes. “Looks like it ain’t just the house getting decorated,” he says, reaching out to swipe a dollop of icing on Steve’s nose with a quick but gentle finger. He sticks it in his mouth, licks the icing off — and maybe he doesn’t mean for it to be so provocative, so enticing, but God, the wet pop of his finger as it leaves his mouth sure makes it seem that way.

     Steve’s brain short-circuits.

     A blush rises to his cheeks.

     He manages, after a long moment of admirable eye contact and abandoned half-sentences, “You’re one to talk. You’ve got flour in your hair.” It’s almost accusatory, the way it comes out, but Bucky just laughs again and something loosens in Steve’s chest. Softer, he tries, “It’s— Right there, let me just—” And before he’s thinking about it, he brushes it away. _Tries_ to brush it away. Steve hasn’t really accounted for the flour on his hands. It’s still on the kitchen counter, too. On their clothes. In Bucky’s hair, now. “Um. Whoops,” he says, and his attempt at stifling a laugh, while determined, ultimately fails. “Sorry. That, uh. Wasn’t really much help.”

     He half-expects it when Bucky just gives him this devilish grin, raises the icing bag tauntingly, and draws a smiley face on Steve’s cheek. He adds a gumdrop to the mix, then another, and Steve assumes they serve as the eyes.

     And, okay, yeah, maybe he deserves that.

     “Well, I think that makes us even,” Bucky says, looking entirely too satisfied with himself.

     Steve wants to wipe that smug grin right off his face just about as much as he wants to commit it to memory. But hey, he can fight dirty too. So he holds up his own icing bag threateningly, a square of gingerbread like a miniature shield in his other hand. “We’ll see about that.”

     Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

     This time it’s Steve wearing the smirk. “Oh, I would.”

     And he does.

 

***

 

     The house is half-finished when they decide, _fuck it_ , at nearly the exact same moment and begin to dig in anyway. There are no doors drawn on the outer walls and Steve has long forgotten about his miserable attempts at erecting the fence, though the fence itself is a work of art in its own right: Bucky dedicated a full fifteen minutes to covering every square inch of it in sprinkles. So Steve lets him be the one to eat it, too. It’s only fair.

     “Oh my God,” Bucky breathes after the first bite. “This is even better than the last batch.”

     “Don’t flatter yourself,” teases Steve, but even as he’s saying it, he’s chewing and tasting and— “Oh my God,” he agrees, but probably not for the same reasons.

     Because this?

     This tastes exactly how his mother used to make it.

     For years he’d been trying to duplicate her recipe, but there has to have been some secret ingredient she slipped in, something left unmentioned on the piece of cardstock she wrote out careful measurements and clear-cut ingredients. Something that he and Bucky added in accidentally, somehow, sometime in the last couple hours.

     Now if only Steve can figure out what the hell it is.

     “Oh my God!” Steve freezes, statuesque, but keeps chewing until the gingerbread is just mush in his mouth and then breaks another piece off the roof and tries again. It doesn’t work that time either.

     “Uh, you okay there, Stevie?” Bucky asks in amusement, watching Steve stuff his face with gingerbread.

     He’s well aware that he’s looking more and more like a madman by the second, but the possibility that Steve is moments away from success distracts him from any overwhelming embarrassment that might haunt him later. “I’m okay,” he assures, pulling himself out of his concentrated trance for a second to offer a sheepish smile. “More than okay. I’m—” He stops himself, lets his gaze sweep over the counter. He hasn’t even thought about cleaning it yet, which, as much as he’ll regret that later, is also kind of a blessing in disguise, the mess. All of the ingredients, save for the ones that can’t stay out of the fridge too long, are spread out in front of him. Steve mentally catalogues each and every one, and grabs the recipe card—which he has to dust a layer of flour off of first—to compare. “We followed the recipe, right? Didn’t skip any steps?”

     “Not that I know of,” Bucky says slowly. “Did we fuck up? Because it tastes pretty good to me.”

     “No, no, no. It just— It’s my mom’s recipe,” Steve tells him, picking up the ginger then the cloves and thoroughly examining them, “but it always came out differently when I made it myself. But now it’s— This is it. There’s something in this batch that I— Oh!” Steve brandishes a bottle of ground nutmeg triumphantly — the only thing on the counter that isn’t in the recipe. “Did you put any nutmeg in?”

     Bucky pops a gumdrop in his mouth. “Um. I think so, yeah. You told me to put in cloves and I didn’t know what they were so I put some of that in by accident instead.”

     There’s a hint of apology in Bucky’s tone, but Steve assuages his worry with a light, dismissive wave of his wrist and a broadening grin. “Do you remember how much?”

     “A teaspoon. Wait, no,” Bucky amends quickly. “Teaspoon and a half, same as the cloves.”

     “A teaspoon and a half,” Steve repeats, trusting Bucky’s subsequent nod. “Bucky Barnes, I could kiss you right now.”

     He doesn’t, though. Instead, Steve rushes around the kitchen in search of a pen, moving on to the living room when he comes up empty. He thinks he can hear Bucky say something—it sounds suspiciously like “you should”—but before Steve can really dwell, he’s too busy scrawling _1 ½ tsp - ground nutmeg_ on the back of his mother’s recipe card.

  

 ***

 

     Sam comes to a grinding halt in the middle of the aisle, forcing other customers veer around his shopping cart. It’s IKEA, so the lanes aren’t exactly narrow, nor are they too defined, but still, Steve nearly gets rear-ended in the process.

     “So you’re telling me,” Sam states incredulously, “the guy notices you watching him from across a crowded bus, because you’re being _that_ obvious—”

     “I wasn’t—”

     “Then you two cozy up in an elevator after that workout where I kicked your ass, inexplicably gross and stanky and literally _dripping in sweat_ —”

     “Okay, first of all, you did not kick my ass at _anything_ , Wilson, and secondly, we did not _cozy up_ —”

     “Then you walk around with cherry pie on the front of your shirt—”

     “Do you have a point you’re gonna get to?”

     “You’re telling me after all that, the most beautiful guy on the surface of the planet goes out of his way to spend time with you, unnaturally awkward as you may be?” Sam laughs a little in disbelief and lets out a low whistle. “He’s got it bad for you, man.”

     And _that’s_ a cause for disbelief, thinking Bucky’s interested in him at all. Steve’s not even sure how he even managed to first start talking to the guy, but he definitely doesn’t want to jinx anything. There isn’t much breathing room to start with, especially with how unlucky he is around Bucky already, and Steve’s fine admiring from a distance if it means he can keep what they’re starting to build up: the movie nights, the shared baked goods, the way their thighs press against each other on the couch even though there’s plenty of room to spread out. It’s become a Thing now, all of that, and he’s happy with it. Happy enough, at least, which is all he can really ask for.

     “He doesn’t,” Steve argues, taking control of the cart and pushing it around aimlessly. They’re already lost, it doesn’t matter where they go from here. Steve doesn’t even remember what floor they’re on. “He’s just being friendly.”

     But he starts to think, well, what if he _isn’t?_

     Sam’s only reply is a dubious hum.

     “Jesus. Where the hell are the lava lamps?” Steve mutters once he snaps out of it. They’re still on a mission, and no talk about Bucky is going to distract him from it.

     They walk past an array of large potted plants that may or may not be fake, though they look pretty realistic either way, and Sam, who gave up on Clint and Natasha’s present the second he stepped inside the labyrinth of a store, makes Steve back the cart up to fill it.

     “Do they really need that many?”

     “Who cares,” Sam says, hefting another into the cart, glossy leaves prodding him from every which way. “They’re on sale.”

 

***

 

     Everyone’s at least three drinks in already and the Christmas tree is still upright, so the housewarming-slash-Christmas party is turning out to be quite a success.

     Clint and Natasha are happy, anyhow, and that’s all that really matters. Clint even promised Steve his firstborn in his excitement over the lava lamp Steve presented to him at the door, much to Natasha’s exaggerated chagrin. She hides her smiles well, but sometimes not well enough; Steve takes it as a sign that she’s warming up to him.

     The punch bowl seems to hold an endless supply of eggnog, there’s mistletoe in every room of the modest apartment, and Steve’s gone around making small talk with everyone he hasn’t been properly introduced to yet. Bucky’s there too, and Steve, between congratulating Clint and Natasha and trying not to embarrass himself too much with the drunken carolling that fills the apartment, hasn’t really had much time to talk to him.

     Which he’s sure is about to be remedied because Bucky catches his gaze from the opposite side of the room during one of the better renditions of “Joy to the World,” smiles, and—

     Turns back to the conversation he’s having with Natasha’s friend Bruce.

     Steve heads into the kitchen to trade his eggnog for some of the scotch laid out on the counter.

     Bucky shows up a moment later, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed and a relaxed grin fixed firmly on his face. His grip’s loose around the rim of his cup and Steve pries it away to give it a refill as Bucky says, “So, I was thinking…”

     “Don’t strain yourself there, pal.”

     “Yeah, yeah, wiseass.” Bucky rolls his eyes, but his tone lacks bite and amusement is written clearly on his face. “I was thinking that it’s not really Christmas unless you watch _Gremlins_ while buzzed on Clint’s special eggnog,” he continues. “Which is honestly a better tradition than it sounds like.”

     Steve pretends to think about it, taking a sip of his scotch. “I don’t know,” he says dubiously, but Bucky can quite obviously see right through him. “Seen it once, not really keen on ever seeing it again.” It’s either a feat of the four drinks circulating in his system or some Christmas miracle, but somehow Steve bites his lip and looks at Bucky through his lashes and manages not to feel awkward or ridiculous. “You’re gonna have to make it worth my while, Barnes.”

     Something changes in Bucky’s grin, but before Steve can decipher exactly what it is, Clint, of course, chooses that moment to walk straight past them, making a beeline for the fridge. He only raises his head to acknowledge them after he digs around for a bit and comes out of it with a tin of pumpkin pie in hand. He’s wearing a smirk that makes him look suddenly sober as his gaze flicks up to the ceiling, then back to Steve and Bucky. “Look up,” is all he tells them, clapping Bucky on the shoulder and sending Steve a meaningful glance as he leaves the kitchen just as quickly as he entered it.

     And when they do look up—

     _Oh_.

     Steve’s not sure if he should murder Clint for interrupting their moment or thank him.

     He’s also not entirely sure why he’s so surprised.

     “Mistletoe,” Bucky tells him, as if Steve hasn’t been wishing for exactly this to happen since he arrived.

     “Sure is,” he agrees.

     They look at it for another minute before Bucky drops his gaze and Steve follows suit.

     “You wanna—?”

     “God, yeah.”

     And just like that, they’re kissing. Steve draws Bucky closer by the soft wool of his Christmas sweater, and he holds him there, chest-to-chest with his fist caught in between. He can feel Bucky’s heartbeat, and the same rhythm starts thrumming in his own veins, hot under his skin. Bucky cups his cheek, gentle and grounding, and Steve is acutely aware of the way his thumb brushes over his cheekbone, the way their teeth clack against each other before Bucky smiles against his lips and tries again. It’s soft but insistent, and doesn’t last nearly as long as Steve wants it to.

     Maybe it’s seconds later, or maybe it’s minutes, but Bucky pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against Steve’s. They’re sharing the same space, breathing the same air, but Steve just wants to be even closer.

     Bucky has that grin on his face, the one that makes him look like the cat that got the cream, and Steve’s confident that he’s sporting a similar smile himself.

     “Think I can make it worth your while, Rogers?”

     “Hmm. Only one way to find out.”

     Bucky has never looked better than when he murmurs, “C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

 

***

 

     They walk precariously close to a puddle by the side of the street and Steve thinks for the second time this week he’s going to have to trek home in wet underwear. But when the next car speeds by, none of the melting slush hits him. And when Bucky pulls him inside a quaint little coffee shop and orders them each a cup of hot chocolate, Steve manages not to spill a single drop on himself.

     After the long reign of bad luck that’s been hanging over his head whenever he’s so much as been in Bucky’s general vicinity, Steve feels like he’s back to normal. Well, a little better than normal, he decides as Bucky kisses him outside his apartment and then again once they’re safely inside.

     It seems a little too good to be true, but Steve doesn’t question it. He lets himself have this, have Bucky. Steve’s comfortable; he’s not bumbling, fumbling or awkward and it registers, when Bucky takes his hand and leads him to the couch, that he’s been trying so hard to keep his head above water he hasn’t even thought to let the current guide him.

     He lets out a long exhale, and somehow his next breath comes easier than the last.

     “Everything okay?” Bucky murmurs.

     “Yeah,” Steve says, content. “Everything’s perfect.”

 

***

 

     They must be somewhere in the middle of the movie, but neither of them are really paying attention. Steve would say it’s just background noise, but Bucky has already taken the liberty of putting the TV on mute, so they can talk in hushed tones and whispers. The light from the screen flickers every few seconds, but Steve, from where he’s curled up by Bucky's side, head on his chest—and God, the couch really doesn’t allow for much room to move—can make out the upward turn of a fond smile, the thoughtfulness of his brow. His posture holds some of that relaxed confidence that hasn’t dissipated with his buzz, betrayed only by a flash of— Of _something,_ quick and cryptic, in his eyes, and that catches Steve’s attention just as well as Bucky’s hesitant, “Hey, Stevie?”

     “Hmm?”

     “Can I tell you something?”

     Steve kisses him as a kind of reassurance, letting his lips linger a couple seconds too long. It makes him effusively giddy and warm, the novelty of taking Bucky apart so softly, so gently; at the same time, though, he’s happy they’re taking the time to unravel each other like this instead of rushing to bed right away. “Sure, Buck. Anything.”

     “It’s stupid, I’m warnin’ you.” His lips are kiss-swollen, red and tempting, his hair mussed from Steve’s hands running through it; Steve himself is probably a similar sight, but there’s something like adoration in Bucky’s eyes as he drinks it in.

     “What, are you trying to build up the suspense?” Steve teases lightly. “C’mon, just tell me.”

     “You gotta promise you won’t laugh.”

     Steve traces an X over his heart. “I swear.”

     Bucky narrows his eyes at Steve a little, but it’s all for show because a small smile follows it shortly. “When I first saw you on that bus, looking like a dumb dork with your book upside-down like that, you know what I started calling you in my head?”

     “That Loser Over There?”

     Bucky laughs, but shakes his head. “The Most Beautiful Man in the World.”

     Steve sits up a little straighter at that, and Bucky accommodates the sudden movement by letting his arm drape over the back of the couch instead of around Steve’s shoulders. “You’re kidding.”

     “Listen, I told you it was stupid—”

     “No, no, no, it’s not,” Steve hastens to add, and he’s grinning so brightly that Bucky’s shy smile turns into one of confusion. “In my head, I started calling you The Most Handsome Guy I’ve Ever Seen, so.”

     Bucky’s laugh—light and relieved—sends a spark running down Steve’s spine, and his subsequent kiss has a similar effect. “Well, ain’t we quite a pair, huh?”

     “We sure are,” Steve agrees, settling back against Bucky. He sighs contently. “I don’t call you that anymore, though.”

     “Oh yeah? What am I now?”

     “The Reason I Feel Like the Luckiest Guy on the Planet.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from John Keats' [Endymion.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/44469)


End file.
